The Will: Part One

Grief hit like a body-blow. Aaliyah walked in swinging—fists full of rage, gut empty after losing her father. The new wife was outside, barefoot around the fountain like some maniac. She looked closer; the bitch was sobbing. Anger drained out. Pity took its place. Aaliyah set her hand on Tiffany’s trembling shoulder. One second later the papers slid across the table, and Aaliyah’s name was nowhere on them. Tiffany smiled thin and sweet. “Sign whatever you want,” she murmured. “Or lie down for me. Do it right, and I’ll share. Stay stubborn, you get nothing.” Aaliyah’s stomach turned. Homeless or a whore for her father’s money—those were the two choices she could see. So she let her dress slide down, knees knocking against cool sheets. Tiffany peeled her open, tongue sliding hot and unhurried until the younger girl started shaking. Aaliyah buried her face in silk to muffle the sounds she hated herself for making. Above her, Tiffany just kept whispering, “That’s my girl,” like she’d already won twice: the money, the body, the future.